


Drab and Fab

by staranon



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: 7 days to die au, Fake AH Crew, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-14 17:45:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16917402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staranon/pseuds/staranon
Summary: a collection of posts from my tumblr, archived here for your reading convenience





	1. striped down to the wire: 7 days au; Ryan centric

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: You think we could ever get a little peek at how Ryan got those scars from the gang in your 7 days au  
> \--  
> Read up on Survival of the Fittest if you'd like to understand a bit more about Ryan's character. this is his backstory
> 
> Warnings!: angst, blood, general unhappiness

Always running. Never resting.

It gets tiresome after a while.

Ryan lives life on the edge, constantly on the run in search of a place to settle down. Nowhere is good enough. Nowhere is safe enough. Whenever he thinks he has something, he loses it.

The first safe zone he lived in collapsed when they ran out of food. He found an abandoned house once. He lost that to a horde. Now he’s been taken up by a small group of five others. It seems to him that they all know each other quite well. He feels like an outsider, probably picked up because his size would intimidate others to stay away. He trails behind him as they walk along a cracked paved road. At night, they sleep in watches. They share their food, forage here and there, and continue to move on to some unknown destination. Ryan hardly says a word while he’s with them, only answers questions when asked. He’s just grateful to not be alone.

They scavenge empty buildings on their way, digging through rubble and houses that have probably already been picked clean. Their supplies are modest, but they have what they need: food, water, some medical supplies. Something to be envious of in this day and age.

They make their way into a small town. The major roads have been barricaded with rusted cars. They make their way into the town. There’s a small pharmacy in the middle of town. The windows have been boarded up. The door has been kicked in, so they go inside, look over the barren shelves, taking whatever can be remotely useful.

They head out to a nearby house. Ryan checks it out first. He doesn’t have nearly has much to lose as the others do, so he goes in, scopes it out, and determines that it’s safe for the night. The others come in and check the second floor. The beds here are still intact, which means they’ll be sleeping well, on mattresses instead of hard ground. Ryan sticks to the front of the house, peering out the windows through lowered blinds to make sure they weren’t followed by anyone—or anything.

He offers to take first watch. He always does. He never sleeps well. He can’t. He’s been on his own for too long, and now he only catches brief snippets of sleep. Ten to twenty minutes at a time, body waking at the lightest sound. He’s exhausted all the time, but he’s adjusted to it. So now it’s just the new norm.

He switches out with the next person and manages to get a bit of sleep on the couch in the living room. He doesn’t dare intrude on the others’ space upstairs. It’s not his place to.

They sleep, they wake, they eat, they move on. Another day. Another journey. It begins to get tedious.

Some members of the group want to stay in town for a few more days and scavenge some more. Stock up on what they can before they head out. Others want to leave. Ryan is impassive. They never need his input on anything. He’s there to be the muscle and that’s it.

The vote comes down. They decide to stay.

They scavenge. Ryan guards. He watches. It’s odd to come across a town that is utterly devoid of both living and dead people. He wonders if the army moved in here and killed everything off. But if so where are the bodies? Where are the clouds of crows and buzzards? Where are the plague quantities of flies and maggots? At the end of the day, he cares little about the potential answers. It doesn’t matter. None of it does.

As they walk down the street, he hears a branch break. He whirls, lifting his bow and notching an arrow. He hears the others ask of him what’s wrong. He shushes them and scans their surroundings. He backs up slowly towards them.  _Safety in numbers._

More rustling. The members of his group begin to panic. He tries to reassure them, but what can he say? What can he do? He’s just as terrified as the rest of them?

A person steps out onto the road, armed with a spiked club, wearing body armour. Then a second comes onto the scene. And a third and fourth until they’re evenly matched one to one with six well-armed bandits. None carry guns, so that’s a relief. But they look mean. They look fierce.

“We don’t want any trouble,” one of the bandits says, holding up a wicked looking knife in a mock surrender. “Just give us what you have. And we’ll let you pass through our humble little town.”

Maybe that explains the lack of life in this place. A well-armed gang who knows what they’re doing could defend a town this size. Kill off the zombies. Rob any visitors. There could be more of them. That’s not something they can chance.

Before the gang can close in on them fully, Ryan turns and shouts, “RUN!”

The group doesn’t hesitate. They bolt. They don’t look back. They just take off while Ryan tries to buy them some time.

He looses an arrow—missed by a mile. His hands are shaking badly.

“You three after them,” the bandit leader says. “We’ll deal with the hero here.”

He’s surrounded by three of them. They move slowly, surely, toying with him like he’s a piece of meat. He drops the bow, goes for his knife. He notices the bandit as lowered their club to drag across the ground. He doesn’t think they’ll be fighting. It leaves him to fight with two others on either side. They start off by coming at him one at a time. Each have a long knife. He manages to jump back, to avoid their strikes. He cannot move in to deliver his own.

It’s just fun and games for them. When he thinks one will strike, the other does, taking him by surprise. He raises his arm to block. A long slice is dragged down his left arm. He jerks back at the pain, lowering his arm to protect it. He takes a few steps back. He feels the blood drip down his wrist. He switches the knife into his other hand. Adrenaline fuels him to go on the offensive.

He slashes wide on the one on his left, nearly carving them along their stomach. With a firm grip around the handle, he deliver a blow to their face. It dazes them. They pull back. He turns to the other on. He lands a hit, sinking the tip of his knife into their shoulder. They grunt. He pulls out the knife, and they scowl and pull back. But while he fights them both, he forgets—momentarily—about the third bandit. A solid blow to the back of his head brings him to his hands and knees.

“You’re good sport,” the bandit says. “Let’s hope the zombies have as much fun with you as we did.” The bandit lands a solid kick to his stomach, sending him onto his side. While Ryan coughs and wheezes, the bandits come to stand around him. He’s blinded with a kick straight to the face. It’s the last thing he’s aware of.

When he comes to, he finds himself sitting up, head bowed towards his chest, arms pinned behind his back. When he opens his eyes, he finds the daylight transitioning into early evening. He’s been dragged outside of the town. He can see the car barricade. He’s out in the middle of a field. Something tugs on his arms. He grunts, feels sticky blood on his face. His nose must’ve bled. He wonders if it’s broken.

“Awake are we?” The lead bandit from before comes to stand in front of him. Something cold pinches against the bare skin of his arms. Wire, he thinks. He’s not being bound with rope but with wire. Against his back is a harsh metal field post.

“Thanks for the gear. Guess we still got a few houses to comb over then.” The bandit crouches down in front of him. “Just one more thing to do and we’ll leave you be.”

A sharp tip of a knife digs into his arm. And then it drags down, cutting in to free the blood in scarlet waves. He clenches his teeth, breathes harshly, and feels tears flow down his cheeks. This is done several times.

“Cheer up there, zombie bait,” the bandit says and has the gall to tenderly touch Ryan’s cheek. “It’ll all be over soon. Once they come for you, they’ll tear into you quickly enough.”

They leave him there, bound and bleeding, sure to attract any nearby zombie so they remain safe, drawing the mindless creatures away from the town as the sacrificial lamb.

The knowledge that he is alone becomes overwhelming. It bubbles up inside him, boiling over until he’s weeping, shoulders heaving, cheeks stained with tears. The sun begins to set. So far no zombies, but if they smell his blood, it won’t be long until they find him.

He knows no one is coming to him. He thinks of the group he travelled with. He can barely remember their names, they spoke so little. He doubts they’ll come for him. It’s a dog-eat-dog world now. He’s on his own.

He struggles in the tight bindings of the wire, working his wrists and putting strain on his shoulders. The blood on his arms gives him something to work with. As long as he keeps going, he might be able to make it out.

He rotates his wrists and pulls. Rotate and pull. Wiggle and pull. He slips one hand out of the bindings around the wrist. He pauses, takes a breath and continues. He focuses on one arm, continue to pull and pull until he slips out another loop of wire. It hurts. God, does it hurt.

He freezes when he hears a grown. The sun has set. It grows dark. He looks around wildly and spots a stumbling form. He has to hurry.

Once he frees one arm, he sets to work on untwisting the wires. His hand slips there’s so much blood. He’s beginning to panic. His shaking hand is no good to him, so he takes a moment. Breathes. Continues. He slips free.

He stands up, head aching, and begins to run away from the town. He has no weapons, no provisions. No prospects. No future.

_Why even bother then?_

_We’ve made it this far. Keep going._

So he does. Because he has no other option. Survival is his only thought. Keep running. Keep going. Never stop. He can only trust himself.

He runs off into the fields. By morning he’s exhausted. The cuts on his arms sting, clotted over in a gory Jackson Pollock. At least his hands are intact. He curls his fingers into his palms. Good. That’s something positive at least.

When he finds a source of water, he cleans up, washes the cuts carefully and tries to figure out if anything is broken. His nose is slightly swollen, slightly painful when he touches it. But it’s good. Not broken. Just painful.

He drinks water with his cupped hands. His stomach growls. What else is new?

He has the desire to sleep, to just lie down next to this small ditch and sleep—never wake up again. But the survivor instinct in his brain won’t let him. So he gets up and moves on.

As time goes on, the scars fade. They close up, become red and pink. They scab over and itch. They pull. And as the scabs fall away, they begin to fade into silver lines, slightly raised edges where the cuts were deeper, but he’ll carry them for the rest of his days. He’ll look at them and remember a time when he was left helpless, when cruelty was all that he knew and he was brought to his lowest. But that also meant he would fall no further.

Eventually he comes to trust. He comes to be accepted for who he is. It’s never going to be easy. His learned instincts, his bizarre sleeping patterns, they are too ingrained to ignore. He’ll flinch, he’ll spook, he’ll turn away. But in the end, he’ll always turn back to those who trace the scars not with cruelty but with kindness. To accept the phantom pain as their own and soak it up so that he no longer has to bare it on his own.


	2. needled thin; Jeremy & Gavin astroneer au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Jeremy, guilty, astroneer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not at all related to Wild West in any way. just a basic sci-fi au

As a volunteer of Operation Genesis, Jeremy knew what he was getting himself into on day one. He’d live with three other people on an uninhabited planet to see if they could make it liveable for other refugees. He had six months to live with the others to create a base that would be able to house a dozen refugees comfortably.

Easy enough. They had state of the art replicators to do what they needed to do. He could do six months with four strangers.

First was Ryan. Battle hardened. Weary. Quiet. But surprisingly optimistic. He used his words wisely.

Second was Michael. Angry. Strong. Easily spooked. But none the less always helpful, always willing to go the extra mile.

And third was Gavin. Inquisitive. Childish. Extremely annoying. The others just seemed to humor his inane questions, his tendency for seeking out death, his apparent lack in basic survival skills. The galaxy had been tearing itself apart from a war for about ten years now. You’d think a person would pick on the basics, such as how to break materials down into their basic elemental components and figure out how to replicate the necessities such as food and water. Not Gavin Free however.

What annoyed Jeremy the most was that Gavin didn’t seem to know when to shut up. When he should work instead of chat. And Jeremy wasn’t here to take care of a freeloader. The current situation in this galaxy didn’t support freeloaders. Eventually about two-thirds of the way through their operation, Jeremy’s patience snapped. He threw down the tools he was holding, turned away from the base he was constructing and looked at Gavin and said:

“Can you just shut the  _fuck up_ for once in your damn life?!”

Everyone stopped what they were doing. Gavin snapped his mouth and shut and turned doe like eyes towards Jeremy.

“You don’t need to keep up a constant fucking stream of whatever pops into your head at any fucking moment in the fucking day! We  _know_ you’re tired. We  _know_ this planet fucking sucks. We live on it with you! Maybe you should learn how to fucking carry your weight and suck it up like the rest of us!  _Gods_!” Jeremy turned away from him and began to walk off. “I’m getting a drink.”

Getting a drink turned into an hour of lying on his back outside the base looking up at the faintly purple sky. This planet was beautiful and vibrant, full of life and colour, even if he did have to wear an ENV suit whenever he went outside. It could harbour life again. It could become a home for others, to become a safe place to raise children, to build a home.

Michael came up to him later, brow set in frustration. He stood over Jeremy, blocking the light. “Gavin’s gone,” he said, sternly.

“So?”

“So, he went off  _because of you._  So go out there and find him. Get him back here before his oxygen depletes.”

“He shouldn’t need a fucking babysitter to remind him about his oxygen levels.”

“So? He’s a part of our crew! Crew mates don’t turn on each other. And if you don’t find him, you’ll have to deal with  _me_ and  _Ryan._ So get up and go find him.”

He knew Michael and Ryan were once Fleet before they were both put on permanent medical leave because of severe PTSD. They knew all about the importance of maintaining crew morale. So if two members were angry, then they had to overcome their issues or face the Brass. And Jeremy did not want to piss off Ryan or Michael. They both had enough issues without Jeremy piling on his.

So Jeremy stood up and headed off in the direction that Michael was pointing in. Ryan stepped up beside him and handed him a kit of supplies and oxygen tethers on his way out.

He began walking.

Two hours into his walk, he saw a body. Lying on the ground, settled on their side, curled up like they were … sleeping.

Ice in his veins, Jeremy ran.  _No._ This couldn’t happen. Not now. He’d never forgive himself. He skidded on the ground, sliding onto his knees. Gavin’s eyes were closed.  _No._

“Gavin, wake up, please!” Fumbling with the tethers, Jeremy was about to attach Gavin to the line when he opened his eyes and rolled onto his back.

“Jeremy?” he said quietly, and Jeremy had never heard him be so quiet and so careful before in his life. “What’s going on?”

Feeling guilty and winded, Jeremy was hit with an overwhelming sense of nausea. “You’re not … you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Gavin said, sitting up. “Just went for a walk is all. I wasn’t going to go far. Just needed to get away is all.” He looked defeated, slightly worn down from Jeremy’s verbal lashing.

“Look, I’m—“

“I’m not as useless as everyone thinks,” Gavin said. “I was a warp core engineer before I came here. Had everything figured out. Graduated early. Job lined up. And then they came. And there was this  _bright_ light. And my mum told me not to look. She got me to hide in a closet. I stayed in there for an hour probably. And when I came out, everyone was just  _gone._ Nothing left of ’em. I was one of five hundred people who survived on my whole planet. One of five hundred,” he said, tilting his face upward to the darkening sky as the vibrantly orange sun began to set.

It never occurred to Jeremy that Gavin’s inane chatter would be something of a coping mechanism. Something to fill the void left by the death of billions on his home planet.

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy said. “I didn’t know. I should’ve just kept my head down. Kept quiet and just . . .”

“You had no way of knowing.”

“Still. Doesn’t excuse what I did. I’m sorry.”

Gavin shrugged.

They said no more that evening and watched as the stars came out. Side by side they sat, and for once Jeremy felt hopeful.


	3. luck based; Gavin centric; fahc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shadeofazmeinya asked: one word prompt thingy: gavin, pain, any au you want :)

He’s the Golden Boy with the Silver Tongue, the negotiator, the sweet talker. Ramsey’s precious boy. He’s known for his pristine dress, his silk designer shirts, the $400 jeans, the golden framed sunglasses and sun bleached hair. He’s spoiled. He’s unrelenting. He’s Gavin Free.

He doesn’t get involved in the action all that much. He’s squeamish. He’s fidgety in a fight. He leaves the blood and guns to the others of the crew. Not even Geoff gets involved in firefights all that much. There are some positions in a crew that don’t require senseless violence, and Gavin would prefer to keep it that way.

When he’s on the field, working a job, collecting a payment, dealing out threats, the crew try to keep him out of danger. He has other uses beyond his tongue. He’s a top notch hacker as well.

So if a heist should all go to shit, Gavin is usually far away by the time that happens, shoved into the front seat of a car as it speeds away. He’s lucky he’s avoided the bloodshed this far into being with the crew.

But luck always runs out.

* * *

The crew they’re dealing with is a shifty one. Geoff can’t get a good read on them, so he sends Gavin down with some protection to see what he can learn. Immediately, Gavin can tell it won’t end well. The gang leader he’s dealing with seems like a twitchy man. He’s sweating a bit. Could be from the heat of the day. Could be from something he’s nervous about. But the conversation Gavin has with him goes swimmingly. He’s cooperative. He’s honest–as honest as Gavin can tell. He’s not making things difficult for Gavin. Which also puts Gavin on edge.

“I don’t like this,” he hears Ryan say through the earpiece. “It’s too easy.”

But Gavin keeps up the act, smiles like nothing is wrong. Don’t let them catch onto you. Don’t let them doubt you.

The meeting comes to an end. Nothing bad happens. There’s no shoot out. No quick shots taken. Ryan is tense. Gavin keeps his own posture stress free and unassuming. Maybe they’ll get away. Maybe he read this entire situation the wrong–

He hears beeping, the pitches coming in quicker and quicker succession. He looks for the sound and notices a charge on the crates where they’re walking. Just before it goes off, Ryan shoves into him, a large arm thrown about his waist and carrying him off as far as he could before the blast went off.

The blast that close is deafening and blinding. All Gavin can hear is a ringing in his ears. Pain lances up his back and the back of his head. He groans and rolls onto his side. HIs sunglasses are a few feet away from him, blown off in the blast, cracked beyond repair. The ringing in his ears makes it difficult to pinpoint where the sounds of gunshots are coming from. If he’s in trouble, if he should reach for his gun.

He shakes his head, tries to gain his bearings. And then he sees Ryan sprawled out next to him. His eyes are closed beneath the mask. He’s bleeding sluggishly from a wound on his shoulder. Gavin moves his aching body over to him and leans up on his knees. He presses down on the wound, a poor attempt at staunching until the backup arrives.

When the other members of the crew arrive and clean out the place, Gavin and Ryan are taken directly back to the tower to be seen to. Gavin is given a diagnosis of a mild concussion. Ryan’s arm is patched up and stiffly bound against his chest. They’re both on bedrest until the doctor gives them the all clear.

It takes a while to wash the blood off of his hands that night. Scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing until the water is no longer pink. He sits at Ryan’s bedside that night before lying down on the bed covers, careful not to disturb him. And just as he begins to doze off, he feels Ryan slip his unbound hand into his.


	4. starve a cold, feed a fever; Gavin/Michael; 7 days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Anyone, illness, 7 days  
> \--  
> so if you remember my Survival of the Fittest story, this is Gavin and Michael's origin story into how they eventually stumbled upon Jack's home

Sneezes are a warning sign.

Coughing is a red flag.

Fevers are a death sentence.

This is the truth of this world. This is the harsh reality of what Michael has come to learn in this new world, in this new natural order. Get sick, you get left behind. If you don’t pull your weight, you’re not worth the antibiotics.

Winters are harsh. The concrete walls are crumbling because of negligence now after so many years since the first zombie case was confirmed. He huddles in with others for heat, looking for the small spaces to live in. Gavin’s body is thin, but when it’s just the two of them in a shared sleeping bag, it makes all the difference in the world.

He’s comforted by the feel of Gavin’s lean waist underneath his palm, the gentle rises in his back and chest as he breathes deeply in sleep. This is survival. This is comfort.

Until the tremors begins. “A slight cold,” Gavin says, shrugging off Michael’s concern. “Nothing more. It’ll pass. They always do.”

For as long Michael’s known him, Gavin always gets sick in the winter. In the past it was never so bad, but then again, they actually had access to health care then. Now they’re in more dangerous territory where every cough is heavily scrutinized. It could be the virus. It could be a common cold. But who wants to take that risk?

If Gavin is sick, Michael’s learned to take him away, hide him away from the other survivors he’s living with. They don’t get suspicious. People can disappear for days at a time in this city while scavenging. That’s the excuse he uses when they ask. They can never know the truth.

They can never know about his sleepless nights as he attempts to get Gavin to drink something, to eat a little. Covering his shaking form in a multitude of blankets to burn off whatever’s inside of him. Each year that passes is another year closer to death Michael feels. He’s worried. Gavin is already so thin. He hates the cold, always has. One of these days someone is going to get wise about their excursions. And people here don’t take too kindly to being lied to.

So as Gavin lies shivering one night and Michael sits awake on guard, he has to make the tough decision and decide that they need to leave this city. They need to head south where the weather is warmer, where snow is an afterthought, where, hopefully, Gavin can be healthy once more.


	5. steep for five; Jack centric; 7 days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Jack sick seven days  
> \--  
> apparently when i first wrote this, i was undecided if this was related to Survival of the Fittest or not. i'm inclined to say it is.

It’s just a head cold. All in his sinuses. Nothing life threatening, but his roommates believe differently. They all worry over him, suffocating him in their concern and comfort. He appreciates it all really, but he would do anything to get some cold and sinus medication.

Ah, the good old days.

“Don’t worry about me,” Jack says as he lies in bed on a comfortable June morning. “I’ll be fine. Just need to rest a bit.”

“You do feel a bit warm,” Geoff says.

“Yeah, because you guys piled four blankets on me. It’s fucking summer.” Jack pushes off three of the layers and folds his arms over his stomach. “Don’t you guys have something better to do than fuss of little old me?”

“’Little old you,’” Michael repeats. “There’s nothing little or old about you. Stop making it so dramatic.”

“And stop making my stuffed nose seem like it’s cancer. Now go make yourself useful. Seriously. I’m  _fine._ ”

And he is, really. It’s just an annoyance he has to deal with for, like, three days. Max. In the meantime, it’s time to sleep. Rarely does he get to rest so fully. Usually he’s building, chopping wood, creating more spike pits around the perimeter of their house for zombies to get stuck in. The usual. But for now he gets to do nothing, put his feet up, learn how to breathe properly, and just enjoy the quiet serenity of nature outside his window. And maybe daydream about this not being a scenario where he’s trying to survive in the wilderness with zombies roaming around, but maybe a getaway with his lovers. A weekend getaway with no technology, just roughing it in the wilderness like true manly men.

He falls asleep with that image in his mind, sleeping away most of the afternoon. When he wakes, the light is orange and low, comforting in its amber tones. He hears a creak in the footboards of the bedroom and opens his eyes. He reaches for his glasses on the night table and puts them on. He sees Ryan at the entrance, hands behind his back. On the night table is an actual steaming cup of tea.

“What is that?” he asks sitting up and picking up the mug.

“Steeped willow bark,” Ryan says. “Should help clear things up a bit.”

“Nice. Thank you.” He takes it a sip. It’s bitter with nothing to sweeten it, but he’s sure the medicinal properties in the bark will help him feel better in some regard. “You’ve been fairly quiet these last few days,” he remarks.

Ryan shrugs. “Just worried. About you.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

“Feel better.”

“I will.”


End file.
